


if this is fate then we'll find a way to cheat

by taizi



Series: if this is fate [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-07 13:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14081637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: Once upon a time, Prompto swore his life in service to a boy that would be king. And he's done a lot of things since then, not all of them good, but he’s never gone back on his word.Now he's alive again, which only means he still has more to give.





	1. i saw your face in a crowded place

Prompto is twenty and some change when he steps off a bus in an unfamiliar town and gets the distinct impression that his wandering is finally over.

He rubs the back of his head, looking around at the peeling travel posters and faded brick of the tired bus depot; litter in the street and people parked on the curb like they’ve been there awhile, drinking from liquor bottles in brown paper bags; the gray and smog of a busy city in the middle of a winter afternoon.

Trying not to give into the painful hope in his chest, Prompto borrows skepticism from a certain Specs and thinks, _Here, really?_

But he’s followed a faint tug all the way to this place, across two small countries and countless state lines, never staying still for longer than it took to scrape together money enough to move on again. And finally, _finally_ , that relentless, reasonless urge has gone still and quiet in the corner of his head or his heart that it occupies.

Finally, finally, Prompto is where he needs to be.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, to whatever invisible hand guided him through his childhood and messy teens and the last handful of hard years. If he’d been left on his own, he’d have been lost for sure. Somehow, he was lucky enough not to have been.

“Home sweet home,” he adds for his own benefit, and hitches up his best smile.

He’s gotta practice that smile for when he sees his guys again.

 

* * *

 

As much as he would _love_ to run down every street in this city of almost three million people until he miraculously bumps into one of the loves of his life -- or, _lives_ , now -- Prompto does, actually, know better.

Three out of three million isn’t exactly great odds. It’s a game of find the needle in the haystack to an extreme never before witnessed by mankind. Prompto has potential years left in this search of his, but knowing where to start is half the job done.

So he steps out into brisk February air and walks down to the bodega on the corner for a newspaper and a cup of coffee. Sits on a bench with his bag beside him and a heel braced on the edge of the seat, folds the classfieds open against his knee, and scans real estate ads with keen eyes.

Nothing will be home, not really. Home was never a place for him, after all. Home was always a person, until home became three people, and now he’s ruined for anything else.

Still. A house is a good start.

 

* * *

 

Prompto’s parents were never around, but they did all the hallmark parent things they could do without actually spending time with him or at home. Wired money for bills and groceries, electronically signed papers he needed for school, and -- big picture, here -- filled up a savings account under his name for college.

He’s been on his own out here in the wider world since he was sixteen, but he’s never touched that account. He’s always been able to get by on his own, more or less.

Prompto dips into it now, waving goodbye to more than half the money to his name as he pays a year’s rent upfront for a cramped two-bedroom condo in the heart of the city. Without any references or rental history or proof of income, the agent told him, eyebrows creeping higher to her hairline with every second she continued reading his fairly blank application, it was really the only way to go.

He drops his bag on the floor, and then sinks down next to it. Tired down to his bones, and nervous about spending so much money all at once, and out of place in this neat little house that’s his, now, apparently. It came furnished, and utilities are included in the rent, so with furniture situated in each room, and lights on, it sort of feels like Prompto’s intruding into someone else’s space.

He’s only been in this city for three days, but he lives in it now. For a whole year, he’ll be coming back here.

He just. Needs to sit for a minute.

 

* * *

 

It’s not something he’s ever been able to explain, nothing he could put words to in a way that would make sense to anyone else, but Prompto’s always had memories of people and places that don’t exist.

“They’re just dreams,” is what his third grade teacher told him, years and years ago. The only adult in his life he could talk to, Prompto had gone to her in hopes she might make sense of this for him as easily as she helped make sense of particularly complicated homework. “With a big imagination like yours, you’ll go places.”

For the first time in his life, the praise slid off his back like water off a duck, and he spent the rest of the day trying to puzzle out what she meant by _just dreams_.

Dreams of a messy living room and whole afternoons spent in front of the tv, a dark head pillowed on his shoulder and an arm draped around his waist, so familiar it makes him ache. Of hours and hours on an open road, the top down and the wind in his hair, passing the driver a cool drink and pushing down the flutter in his stomach when their fingers overlap and the driver favors him a smile. Of training in a big yard, the big hands that seem to burn when they reposition his arms or his footing, a deep voice that never loses patience or its gruff edge of tireless caring, and the swell of fierce, telling pride behind the bark of _that’s the way, blondie!_

Countless casual encounters, unremarkable moments, the same three faces over and over. A lifetime of memories, seen in precious snatches, like watching the highway scenery blur away from the window of that passenger side seat.

Prompto was a kid but he remembered being a man, too. He was still growing up, but he had already done that before. He was ten years old when he finally had to admit to himself what he’d known all along:

They weren’t just dreams. Imaginative or not, there was no way Prompto was _that_ creative.

And then the dreams stopped feeling like dreams, and started feeling more like memories, and they got less nice and less ordinary, and he relived war and pain and fear and grief. He remembered Noct and Ignis and Gladio, their names and their faces and the shapes their mouths made when they laughed, and he remembered that he loved them, and that he followed them all across the world on the off chance he might have been of some use to their cause.

Once upon a time, Prompto swore his life in service to a boy that would be king. And he's done a lot of things since then, not all of them good, but he’s never gone back on his word.

Now he's alive again, which only means he still has more to give.

 

* * *

 

The first familiar face Prompto runs into isn’t the one he’s expecting.

The little boy huddled on a street side bench in a winter coat two sizes too big looks up when Prompto sits next to him, and his eyes are as wide as they were the first time they met in Lestallum, years and universes ago.

Prompto’s always had a soft spot for Talcott.

“I’m not lost,” Talcott insists, clutching his own sleeves with white-knuckled hands. “I don’t need any help, I’m okay.”

Except Prompto knows a runaway when he sees one. There’s a plastic bag tucked at Talcott’s side, with what looks like clothes and a few empty food wrappers. He looks cold and tired and like he’s been out here for a little while.

“Hey, that’s good,” Prompto says easily. “I’m glad you’re okay. You look a little hungry, though. No lunch, yet?”

Suspiciously, Talcott shakes his head slowly in the negative. Prompto stands up again, hands in his pockets.

“How about I go get us something? Will you still be here when I get back?”

It’s a little nerve-wracking to walk away when odds are good the kid is going to bolt as soon as he’s gone, but Prompto can’t just grab everyone he used to know and cling to them in the middle of these lives they’re living now, or expect them to make room for him when he’s nothing but a stranger here.

He can only meet them, and get to know them, and try to make that be enough.

Taclott’s sitting where Prompto left him when he comes back with enough convenience store food to feed a small army, and his face lights up when Prompto says, “Go ahead, dig in.”

Two sandwiches later, when he’s working his way through a pack of apple slices, Talcott is a lot more talkative. Prompto has to wonder at how little kindness the kid’s been shown, if he opens up so quickly after a single cheap meal.

“Grandpa died a year ago,” the boy tells him solemnly, “and now I’m living in a foster home.”

Prompto takes the apple slice Talcott offers him and bites into it thoughtfully. “Are they nice to you?” he asks at length, watching Talcott’s face for any trace of a lie. The boy hesitates to answer long enough that Prompto starts to worry, and then his shoulders bunch up by his ears and he nods.

“They’re just,” he says, “not grandpa.”

“Aw, buddy.” Prompto’s never been good with tears. He can feel his own eyes burning when Talcott buries his face in his little hands and starts bawling. Scooting closer and dislodging most of their picnic, Prompto wraps an arm around the kid’s trembling shoulders. “Nobody’s trying to replace your grandpa, I promise. They just wanna look after you for him.”

“Yeah,” Talcott mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

“I think grandpa would probably want to know you’re someplace safe,” Prompto goes on a little more gently, giving him a friendly nudge. “He wouldn’t want you out here all alone, huh?”

He’s not prepared for the burst of fresh tears that earns him. Talcott turns to bury himself against Prompto’s front and cry -- this little kid who loved cactuars, who lost his only family because of their loyalty to the crown, who grew into a man who stood against the darkness alongside the rest of them.

After ten years of darkness, Talcott was the one who found Noctis out near daemon-infested Galdin Quay. He saved him, brought him to Hammerhead where Prompto and the others were waiting, and at the time Prompto was speechless with gratitude.

Now, at least, Prompto has a chance to return the favor, and give this lost boy back his home.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he says, “let’s figure out where you belong.”

 

* * *

 

Talcott’s foster parents have a busy, distracted air about them, and a ton of other kids running around through the house, but the woman’s eyes fill with tears at the sight of Talcott on the porch.

“Poor guy got lost,” he says, despite the eight-year-old’s perfect working knowledge of his address and how to use the GPS on his phone, and the fact that Taclott was the one who led the way here. Taclott shoots him a look but doesn’t argue, because he’s a smart kid. “I, uh, I’m a friend of his family -- other family -- so I offered to walk him home.”

He receives a plethora of thanks for his troubles, and a guarantee they’ll call him for babysitting in the future since Talcott has to be pried from his side -- and Prompto kind of hates the idea of filling his house with these screaming, stampeding children. He’s never been good with people, let alone kids, and being in charge of a whole brood sounds like a nightmare.

But he can’t bring himself to shoot it down when Talcott’s eyes get so big and shiny at the idea, so he blurts, “Sure, but -- just _this_ one. I just want _this_ one.”  

 

* * *

 

Prompto throws together a portfolio and emails a resume to the handful of publishers looking to hire a freelancer. It takes a few days to hear back, but he gets more than one offer, and to his untrained eye they all look pretty competitive.

He wishes he had Ignis to help him decide, but in the end he goes with the only one who called to follow up with him, and they seem delighted to have him on board.

Now he has a house and a job, and an excuse to wander the city for photo opportunities and chance encounters, and every step he takes is one step closer to what he’s looking for.

 

* * *

 

His first kiss was with Gladio, the first time he was eighteen. Noctis was always a little weird about being affectionate, and Ignis always held himself a little bit apart because of duty and expectations, but Gladio was a romantic at heart. Gladio fell as fast and as hard as Prompto did, without anything to catch himself on or slow himself down.

Prompto can’t believe how much he misses someone he hasn’t even met yet.

 

* * *

 

Almost a month after he first moved to town, Prompto finds Ignis.

Just a glimpse, just for a second, but Prompto would know him _anywhere._

He’s daydreamed about the fateful encounter pretty much his whole life, and it doesn’t go even a little bit the way he fantasized -- largely because he loses composure immediately, drops everything and goes darting across the busy street to a chorus of squealing tires and blaring horns.

It’s him. It’s _him._

After twenty fucking years, it’s him.

Prompto trips on the curb, catches himself against a peeling newspaper box, and almost loses sight of him in the crowd. His heart is pounding so hard it hurts, like it’s trying to tug its way out of him and follow Ignis on its own, and Prompto forces himself to _move._

Takes the steps down to the subway platform three at a time, using elbows and shoulders to force his way through and around people. He thought he was ready for it, prepared to find them and to _see_ them again, but that’s only because he’s an _idiot._

“W -- Wait!” he calls, breathless. “Ignis! Ignis, please, wait!”

But the crowd thins just enough for Prompto to see that he’s gone. He spins on his heel, searching desperately, but there’s no telltale head of dirty blond hair, his eyes keep catching on sharp business suits but they all belong to strangers, and at the end of the platform the train doors are closing.

Prompto sinks to the floor bonelessly, staring with wide eyes as the train moves away.

He doesn’t know the city well enough to make it to the next station in time.

He fucked this up. He fucked this whole thing up.

Ignis was  _right there_ and Prompto let him walk away. And he’s not sure he can survive the monstrous wave of _grief_ that comes down on him now, settling like a well-worn coat. Hearts can really break, even in this world without magic, and Prompto has never hurt like this before.

Eyes burning, breath hitching, he’s working himself into a pretty spectacular meltdown and hardly notices when someone stops in front of him.

He definitely notices when that someone kneels, planting knees on the dirty tile as though those suit pants _don’t_ cost more money than Prompto brings home in a month, and presses an elegant hand under Prompto’s chin to lift his face up.

Ignis.

“You didn’t get on the train,” Prompto says stupidly.

“I heard you call my name,” Ignis replies, as calmly as if he rearranges his schedule for frantic strangers every day. He’s studying the lines and contours of Prompto’s face with intense focus, as if trying to memorize the placement of every individual freckle, and Prompto holds as still as he can, even holds his breath, desperate not to interrupt Ignis’ careful scrutiny.

He has to stomp down the urge to reach out and grab. His whole body is thrumming with nervous energy, all of his focus poured into those tiny points of contact where the tips of Ignis’ fingers meet his skin.

“I know you,” Ignis remarks. It’s not quite a question, but close enough to one that Prompto swallows hard and comes up with an answer.

“S- sort of.”

That gets him a raised eyebrow, an expression so familiar his entire world rocks just a little bit. The hand holding Prompto in place is both firm and soft, and something relents in Ignis’ eyes the longer they sit there and keeps relenting, keeps going and going until he’s looking at Prompto the way he looked at him in that other life, so fondly it hurts.

“I love you,” Ignis says, much softer now, like he’s recounting a well-known fact. Like he’s _remembering_ something lost to him until this moment. Prompto’s either going to start laughing or crying again, and he knows it's going to be hysterical no matter which way it goes.

It turns out to be a little of both, a strangled sound that gives away more than he wants it to.

“God, I hope so,” he whispers.


	2. our lives are what we picked up anyway

“I have dreams of darkness, among other things,” Ignis confides in the warmly lit cafe they end up in. “I can’t see anything, or find any light to follow, but most of the time the dreams aren’t scary or sad. I’m happy, and busy, and surrounded by dear voices.”

He reaches across the small table between them with terrible caution, fingers brushing the side of Prompto’s face. It’s remarkably like the way he used to touch him, after borrowed magic burned his eyesight away.

“I think I recognized you the moment you called my name,” Ignis says slowly. “I think I’d know your voice anywhere.”

And Prompto was so ready to _not_ have this that he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he does.

The plan was always to find the guys again -- be friends with them, have dinner together on the weekends and drinks after work, be a friendly face they could call on if they ever needed anything -- and that would have been _more_ than enough.

But Ignis _knows_ him, if only a little bit, and that’s…

Prompto doesn’t know what to do with that.

 

* * *

 

He remembers being fifteen, and newly Noct’s friend, and doing his best to make a good impression on Noct’s formidable advisor and grumpy bodyguard.

Remembers being twenty-one and confined to a cot in a makeshift hospital after a solo hunt gone wrong, willing himself to die or disappear under Ignis’ disappointed expression and Gladio’s angry eyes.

Remembers being twenty-four and packing his bag with hands that shook while the two of them shouted in the next room, because maybe if he left they’d have less to argue about.

Remembers how they all pushed each other away in those long years without their king, when they should have done everything they could to keep one another close, and Prompto _aches_ , thinking about all that time they missed out on.

Maybe this whole thing is a second chance where he doesn’t really deserve one.

An opportunity to get it _right_ for a change.

 

* * *

 

Ignis shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair in the dining room, sets his briefcase down beside it, and looks over Prompto’s small house with enigmatic eyes.

His eyes land on Prompto’s bag where it’s puddled in a corner of the sofa, still packed. He steps through the staged, largely unused rooms, runs a hand over the faint dust that’s accumulated on the polished surfaces, and his mouth tightens.

Prompto hovers anxiously in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, trying to figure out what he’s done wrong.

Ignis finally looks back at him. His expression is impossible to read.

“It’s almost like a hotel suite,” he says mildly. “It’s as though you’re a guest here, and you’re ready to pick up and go at any moment.”

“I mean, I hardly spend any time here, so it _does_ sort of feel like a hotel room,” Prompto says, rubbing the back of his head. Makes a mental note to hit up a thrift store and fill the space with junk, if that’ll make Ignis feel any better. “I don’t have much, so it worked out for me that the place came furnished. Otherwise it’d probably still be empty.”

Ignis’ mouth softens. He smooths the untidy fringe out of Prompto’s eyes with infinite care. Prompto has no idea what he could be seeing that makes him want to stay, but whatever it is, he sees it.

He stays.

 

* * *

 

“It’s a lovely home,” Ignis tells him over breakfast the next morning, crepes and homemade cappuccino that make the whole house smell sweet. “It just needs a personal touch.”

And really, for Prompto, that only means one thing. He holds up his camera with a hopeful expression, rewarded impossibly when Ignis laughs and consents to a photo.

He prints the selfie immediately and it goes up on the wall in the living room under a piece of tape, small in the otherwise empty space and almost defiantly cheerful for that reason.

Prompto stands back with a self-satisfied smile and says, “That’s a good start!”

Ignis’ eyes are soft. He’s looking at Prompto, rather than the photo behind him, when he agrees.

 

* * *

 

Ignis does, eventually, have a job to return to.

He seems reluctant to bring it up, on the second day of their unlikely reunion, but Prompto _gets it._ He never meant to make Ignis rearrange his whole life to make room for an old boyfriend he never actually _had_. If Prompto was a good person, he wouldn’t take up any of Ignis’ time at all.

He’s not a very good person.

“Whenever you’re in the neighborhood,” he says, pressing the spare key into Ignis’ hands as he gets ready to leave. “No, scratch that, just plain _whenever._ Come on by, okay? Or drop me a line, and I’ll come to you.”

It’s hard, it’s so hard, but this Ignis isn’t the one he can cling to and cry on and beg not to leave. Their history is only one-sided. It would be so unfair to unload any of that now, so _unkind_ to force him to remember any of the things that wake Prompto up shaken in the middle of the night.

Ignis returns his smile like a knee-jerk reaction, takes the key and tucks it into his pocket. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says with something like fond amusement, and with that he’s gone, nothing left of him but the lingering smell of aftershave and the soft click of the door closing behind him.

And it’s okay. It’s good. Prompto _found_ him, and it's something of a  _miracle,_  and he’ll find Noct and Gladio, too. 

And no matter how much or how little of them he can have to keep, it’ll be good.

"Come on, Prom," he says, swiping at his wet eyes impatiently. "You have work to do, too."

 

* * *

 

There’s a new museum exhibit opening on the weekend, and Prompto’s boss sends him in the day before the grand opening with a shiny press pass and a mission.

After climbing Mount Ravatough and picking his way through actual lava to photograph the peak for a generous payoff, any job inside a mostly empty, air-conditioned museum is a cake walk as far as Prompto’s concerned. He misses his old camera, and the filters and settings on it that he knew well enough to flick through and adjust mid-battle and with his life on the line, but on top of everything else he lost, the camera is small change.

He texts his boss when he’s done, and starts to head out with a wave to the security guard, but something catches his eye. His head turns almost on a reflex, as though someone called his name, and he finds himself gazing at a painting on the far side of the exhibit hall.

And since Prompto has spent his whole life following the insistent nudges of some whimsical spiritual guide, he stops short.  

“Actually, can I, um -- “ He gestures toward the painting in question, and the guard shrugs.

“You still got ten minutes. Knock yourself out.”

So Prompto is free to wander over to the other side of the big, echoing room, carefully skirting a few displays and stopping at last in front of a large framed canvas.

It’s beautiful, for sure -- rich colors and a dreamlike quality -- but the longer he looks at it, the more Prompto is sure he’s seen it before.

A lake at sunset, gold light touching the water. The crested hills are forested and the trees burn red against the sky, and long-necked creatures wade through the shallows, and then it clicks.

Duscae in the evening, the sprawling wetlands where they spent a hundred pleasant afternoons. Chasing frogs and luring a giant catoblepas close enough for that stupid photo op, wheedling and coaxing the guys into another chocobo race, please, the ranch was so close --

He has no idea how long he’s been standing there, gawking like an idiot, when a footfall startles him out of it.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” the guard says, sounding contrite. “Time’s up, buddy. We’re about to open for the day.”

“Right,” Prompto says, and flushes when he realizes his eyes are wet. He blinks away the threat of tears before he can hugely embarrass himself in front of a stranger, pats himself down to make sure he has everything, and says, “Right, I’m ready.”

Except after three steps he doubles back to take a picture of the painting, because he’s half-afraid it might disappear if he doesn’t take some proof of it away with him.

 

* * *

 

He gets lunch at the cafe Ignis took him to the day before, wanders the city some more because there’s still a lot he hasn’t seen yet, and fields a call from Taclott’s foster parents.

They have questions about his availability, for some reason, and for a second he has absolutely no idea what’s happening. Then they mention needing a sitter for Talcott the coming weekend, and Prompto remembers being coerced into agreeing to that, and says, “Yeah, sure. You can drop him off any time Saturday, I’ll make sure I’m home.”

He’ll need kid stuff. Talcott probably likes video games, so that’s a good place to start.

The sky is gray and heavy with rain when he finally turns toward home, and of course he doesn’t have an umbrella because that would have meant he actually checked the forecast before leaving the house like a reasonable adult.

He has his camera bag tucked under his jacket and his hood pulled up when a low whine reaches him through the evening traffic noise.

It’s a big dog, hunkered low in the miserable drizzle and looking up at him with liquid eyes. It would probably be white if its fur was clean, and looks too thin to be healthy. It doesn’t have Pryna’s markings around the eyes, but otherwise it could have been her twin.

It inches forward hopefully, and springs up on him with glee when Prompto crouches with a friendly smile.

“You look like another girl I know,” Prompto tells it warmly. He checks for a collar and isn’t surprised not to find one. The dog is soaking up the affection like it’s starved for it, and Prompto doesn’t think twice. “Not having a place to go home to sucks. If we can’t find where you belong, you can stay with me.”

It licks his face, as if in thanks, and follows right on his heels every step of the way home.

 

* * *

 

The house smells amazing when he opens the door, and Prompto freezes in the entry way for several seconds as he tries to puzzle out why a burglar would break in just to attempt the thankless task of cooking something delicious in his empty kitchen.

Then Ignis is saying, “Why on earth do you look so surprised to see me? You gave me a key.”

He ends up with an armful of wet boy and wet dog for all his troubles, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He holds them, both of them, instead of doing the smarter thing and shoving them off his immaculate person, and even laughs.

“You’re soaked. What have you been doing? No, don’t answer that. You need a long shower before I’m letting you anywhere _near_ the kitchen.”

Maybe his tone is meant to come off as scolding, but his fingers in Prompto’s hair tell another story. Prompto feels kind of terrible that he’s getting Ignis’ clean apron all damp, but he can’t make himself let go for a long moment because it’s so _much._

This whole time, life could be like this? How the hell was he even living before? Why did it take him so long to get here?

 

* * *

 

After dinner Prompto dutifully emails a picture of Tiny to the local radio station and animal shelter, just in case she _does_ have a loving family out there somewhere, and makes an appointment with the veterinary clinic that had the most five star reviews to get her checked out.

Then he sets aside his phone, feeling productive, and scritches the fluffy white head on his lap. Ignis passes him a cup of coffee before he sits down, and the TV is on low behind them, and the rain is a dull patter against the windows, and it’s _ridiculously_ comfortable. Prompto hasn’t felt this warm in years.

“Perhaps I should have expected this,” Ignis says, sounding more amused than anything else. When Prompto looks at him, he nods to indicate the happily sprawling Tiny. “You seem the type to bring home strays.”

This is Prompto’s second time around and at this point he knows more about being a stray than ever -- being unwanted, striving to find and earn and keep your place in the world, leaping at the chance to have a home.

Tiny looked so small and so hopeful back there in the rain, approaching the first person to show her any kindness. Prompto knows what he must have looked like that night in Gralea, when Noct and Ignis and Gladio learned the ugly truth about who he was and where he came from and still wanted him around.

“It’s hard to turn ‘em away when they look at you like that,” he says.

 

* * *

 

They end up going to a thrift store after all, because Ignis doesn’t have to work, and even with the half-dozen photos joining the first picture on the wall, the house is still pretty bare.

“Why didn’t we go look at a proper furniture store?” Ignis asks mildly, staring around at the cluttered shelves of cheap secondhand wares with one of those inscrutable expressions. “Now you’re only going to bring home garbage.”

“One man’s trash,” Prompto says cheerfully, poking through a collection of dusty snowglobes. “C’mon, at least look around. You might find something cool.”

Ignis sighs, put-upon, but he does start perusing through some ancient books. Prompto adds a cat-shaped wall clock to his basket, and a pineapple-print bandanna goes in after it, and then he sees something bright green, standing out starkly against all the dull-colored knick-knacks it’s on display with.

He gasps so loudly the clerk at the register jerks her head up with a start, and lunges to grab the innocuous little figurine. It’s a stiff-limbed humanoid cactus with beady eyes and a round mouth, about as tall as Prompto’s forefinger is long, standing at a tilt on its little platform as if its about to break into a sprint.

It’s a thirty-five cent _miracle,_ and the best money Prompto’s ever spent.

He wonders if Talcott still likes cactuars.

 

* * *

 

The cat clock goes on the wall, the pineapple bandanna goes on Tiny, and Ignis’ grudgingly-purchased cookbook goes on the kitchen counter by the stove. Prompto sets the cactuar by the new video game console carefully.

Home, he thinks, and for the first time it seems to fit.

 

* * *

 

The painting of Duscae lives in the back of his mind, and try as he might he can’t find its likeness on the internet _anywhere._ He hasn’t told Ignis about it, because Ignis is remembering little bits and pieces but it’s all been good, inane stuff so far and Prompto doesn’t want to jolt him into something he isn’t prepared for.

He can’t stomach the idea of this untroubled, unburdened version of the man he loves experiencing all that heartache and pain over again. Maybe it's selfish, but if he could spare him that -- if he could spare _any_ of them that --

Let Prompto be the one to carry that baggage this time.

So he waits until a day Ignis is gone to venture back to the museum, during normal business hours this time. He pays the entrance fee and lets memory guide him back to the right spot. He weaves through the busy crowd at the new exhibit, eyes catching on the canvas as soon as it’s in his line of sight.

It’s still as breathtaking as ever. This time Prompto has the presence of mind to look for a plaque, or a signature on the artwork itself, but he comes up with a whole lot of nothing.

Frustrated, his eyes skip back to the landscape painting hungrily. He wants to know where it came from. He wants to find the artist and ask them.

Maybe it’s just something they remembered from a dream, a life they’re not aware of having lived, and he’ll leave disappointed by the whole encounter, but maybe --

Maybe he’s not the only one who was plucked out of another world and misplaced in this one. Maybe he’s not the only one going in circles, looking for something just this side of impossible.

“Oh, hey,” a familiar voice says, “it’s you.”

When he turns around, Gladio is grinning at him. Bright and youthful, his face unshadowed and unscarred. He’s wearing the security guard uniform, arms thick with muscle where they’re crossed over his chest, and for some reason his expression is warmly amused and already fond.

It takes Prompto exactly two seconds to fall in love with him all over again.

“My buddy told me about you,” Gladio tells him cheerfully. “He said in the nine years he’s worked here, you and I were the only two people he’s ever caught crying over this weird painting. Guess he just doesn’t have an eye for art like we do, huh, blondie?”

 


	3. it’s been a long day without you

Gladio says, “Can I try something?”

And Prompto, who’s lived two seperate lives now and apparently _still_ hasn’t lived long enough to work up enough willpower to deny Gladio anything, says, “Go for it.”

His voice comes out hoarse. His heart is beating a nervous tattoo in his chest, so fast he thinks he might faint out of sheer self-preservation. It must show on his face, because Gladio’s approach is slow and careful. It’s the way Noctis once approached an injured chocobo with a curative in hand and endless care in his face, deep in a wild wood, in another world.

It’s just, he wasn’t ready for this. He was so sure they wouldn’t know him, wouldn’t remember, would have lost that love that Prompto still carried with him. Because it can’t be this easy. It can’t be this painless. Not when everything else Prompto has ever had that was worth having cost him a knock-down, drag-out fight.

But here they are, in a sunlit museum hall, in front of the painting that drew them both, impossibly, to the same place, at the same time. Here they are, Prompto holding his breath and Gladio taking step after intent step toward him. Here they are, and Prompto is trembling with anticipation and naked want and hope so heavy he couldn’t move under its weight if he tried.

Gladio lifts his hands, hesitates another moment, and then takes the plunge. Winds big arms around Prompto’s waist and shoulders and folds him against his broad chest, slowly, surely.

And it’s --

It’s like there are grooves in Prompto’s heart and soul, handholds and fingerprints, worn down like well-traveled roads. Marks his best friends made, empty places Gladio slips inside of and fills up, until the last thing Prompto feels is empty.

He clings back for all he’s worth, clutching handfuls of Gladio’s shirt, half-convinced he’s dreaming. He feels it when Gladio’s breath hitches, when the arms around him get a little tighter.

“Yeah,” he mumbles into Prompto’s hair, like the touch confirms something his eyes couldn’t. “It’s you.”

 

* * *

 

Because it’s Gladio, and because it’s Prompto, the selfie they take for Ignis is far from respectable. Their hair is mussed and their eyes are overbright and their faces are flushed; cheek-to-cheek so they both fit in the frame, and grinning like fools.

Ignis doesn’t respond to the text, but his car is parked by the curb when Prompto leads the way home from the bus station, even though he’s pretty sure Ignis said work was going to keep him busy today.

Enthusiastic barking from the other side of the door announces their arrival. Prompto barely has time to get a key in his hand before the door is pulled wide open, like Ignis has been there waiting for them this whole time.

His face is hard to look at, so Prompto kneels down by Tiny instead.

The breath goes out of Gladio like it was punched out of him. Right there on the porch, in the eager afternoon sunlight, with the neighbors outside weeding their garden and pretending not to watch, he leans in and cups Ignis’ cheek in one big hand.

Prompto thinks of the way Ignis, whose ruined eyes taught him to rely on other senses, remembered Prompto's voice before he remembered his face. The way Gladio, who was always the most physical person Prompto knew, seems to recognize them by the way they feel in his hands.

Little touch memories, things that stick to your soul way after you forget faces and names.

Ignis covers Gladio’s hand with one of his own, and Gladio practically melts into him. Prompto hugs his dog, hides his ridiculous smile in the kiss he plants on the top of her head, then stands up and slips quietly into the house to give them a little privacy.

They loved him, he knows that, but they knew each other so much longer than they knew him. They had more history, more time. There has to be a little more love there, too. And he’s not gonna begrudge them that, not ever. Not when he’s lucky just to be on their radar.

 

* * *

 

When Prompto was eighteen and pulling himself through the grueling, sometimes humiliating Crownsguard training, he did it with Noct in the front of his mind every wincing step of the way.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, Argentum,” one of his fellow trainees said once, knocking shoulders with him roughly as she left the yard. “You’re only here because the prince wants you here.”

Well, yeah, Prompto wanted to say, I know that.

Nevermind that Cor wouldn’t give preferential treatment to a recruit even if there was a gun to his head. Nevermind that Prompto put in extra hours with Gladio after everyone else went home. Nevermind how hard he worked, every godsdamned day, to earn his place.

For as long as Noct wanted him around, he’d be there. He’d fight tooth and nail to be there. But he _never_ got the wrong idea.

 

* * *

 

“Damn, you don’t have much, do you?” Gladio says, walking around the house the way Ignis did that first day, taking everything in with those steelbright eyes.

“I have a clock,” Prompto points out. Its tail swings back and forth with every tick of the second hand, it’s amazing.

Gladio looks at him, can’t seem to come up with anything to say to that, and then looks at Ignis. “Do you stay here?”

“Most of the time,” Ignis says, adjusting his glasses. “We haven’t talked about making it a permanent arrangement yet. It _is_ Prompto’s house, after all.”

Gladio makes a little ‘ah’ noise and goes back to snooping, but Prompto sits upright like he’s been shocked.

“Permanent?” he blurts. “You -- wait, you want to _live_ here? With me, really?”

They both glance at him knowingly, like Prompto’s reaction lines up with everything else they know about him, even if they aren’t happy about it. Gladio’s brows come together, and Ignis mouth tightens into a thin line.

But when Gladio reaches for him, it doesn’t seem to be in anger. He takes Prompto’s chin in one hand, tilts his face up a little, and Prompto is still wondering, waiting to see where this is going, when Gladio leans in with a kiss.

It’s nothing like the first time he kissed him -- when he scooped Prompto up and spun him around, both of them exhilarated from an early morning run, high on endorphins and one another’s company -- but it _is_ a little like the last time. When they were sitting around a flickering fire, destiny and death one sleepless night away, and Prompto’s hands were trembling in his lap, out of fear and wounded love and grief that was ten years old and growing. Gladio crouched in front of his chair and took his hands and pressed their lips together, an apology as much as a promise as much as a wish.

It’s _too_ much like that time, and Prompto knows his eyes are wet, raw around the edges, when Gladio leans away again.

Ignis says, very softly, “We’ve missed you too, my dear. Whatever else you may doubt, please never doubt that.”

 

* * *

 

“Shit,” Gladio says, so abruptly Tiny jerks her head up and Ignis gives him a disapproving look. “Prom, was that okay? I just grabbed you, I didn’t even think -- “

Prompto grins. “Um, it was _more_ than okay, big guy.” And then, because Gladio looks genuinely upset with what could have been a major overstep, Prompto goes on teasingly, “You always gotta be first to get your hands on me, huh?”

Gladio blinks, and his expression shifts into one of surprise. He looks over Prompto’s head at Ignis, who studiously doesn’t look at either of them.

“No fuckin’ way,” he says. “You guys have been living here like a married couple and Iggy hasn’t made the moves on you _once?”_

“Gladio!” Prompto sputters through a laugh, and Ignis’ shoulders hunch up by his ears.

“It would have been _untoward_ ,” he snaps. Gladio looks positively delighted at him.

“Specs,” he says, with the slow dawning of some wonderful revelation, “you’re _shy._ ”

Ignis turns to scowl, but his face is ever so slightly pink.

He’s no royal advisor in this life, with expectations twice as tall as he was piled up on his shoulders. He still plays his cards close, but he isn’t nearly as guarded as the man he was before.

And really, with the way Ignis looks -- heartbreaking in the warm light of the kitchen, with his pretty eyes and his hair loose against his face -- it’s no wonder Gladio practically runs across the room to get him in his arms.

The resulting argument is loud and good-natured, and Prompto leans back in his chair and laughs. The evening unfolds around them, bright and unburdened and bold.

 

* * *

 

Prompto wakes up from a dream, and for a long moment he has no idea where he is.

It’s so unsettling and strange that his chest feels like it’s being crushed in a vise, his breath coming in too shallow and too fast.

This dark bedroom is unfamiliar to him, the city sounds foreign and strange. He wants the living room in Noct’s apartment, he wants the backseat of the Regalia, he wants the camping tent that went with them all across the Duscaen countryside. He wants to be someplace he knows.

He wants Noctis.

There in a dream, just moments ago, as real as anything -- solid under his hands and laughing like crazy, twenty years old and invincible, his eyes flyaway blue and fearless. Gone the moment Prompto woke up, a wisp of want and longing.

Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes Prompto tells himself to breathe, and nurses himself through it as quietly as he can.

In the morning, Ignis takes one look at him over the sizzling pan on the stove and puts the spatula down. “Do you have nightmares very often?”

“Nah, Iggy, don’t worry,” Prompto says, following Tiny to her empty food bowl. “It was a good dream.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a reminder, if anything. Don’t get too comfortable, Prom -- not when there’s still something you have to do.

 

* * *

 

Talcott comes bounding into the house like a little whirlwind of energy, an overnight bag in hand and a thousand words ready for anyone willing to listen.

Prompto lets Ignis take over with the parents, showing them around the place and winning them over with his cultured voice and impeccable manners and perfect face, and follows Talcott around instead.

The kid _loves_ Tiny, and he gushes about the video games Prompto picked out for him, and _oooh_ s at all of the photos posted haphazardly on the living room wall.

But his whole faces lights up at the sight of the little cactuar sitting on the coffee table. His eyes are like bright moons when he picks it up.

“It’s for me?” he says, all hushed and delighted.

Prompto grins at him. “All yours.”

“Thank you!” He’s still grinning so big it hardly fits on his face, and goes on, “I think I had one of these before. It was a different color, though.”

He spins around to where Gladio is looking at him with something like painful fondness and holds it up in both hands, says brightly, “Prompto found me a cactuar!”

“Hey,” Prompto says, not quite surprised, “you know what the little guy’s called?”

“Of course I do,” Talcott says, an eight-year-old at his most reasonable. “What else could it be?”

 

* * *

 

“He’s not a stray, you know,” Ignis says mildly, sorting through a stack of paperwork at the kitchen table.

“What? I know,” Prompto replies, a little defensive. “I never said he was.”

But one Saturday turned into another, and then a weekend, and then every other weekend, and three months later the second bedroom has become Talcott’s, full of some of his clothes and school stuff. Posters on the walls, books filling the empty shelves, the cactuar figurine in its place of honor on the nightstand.

There’s been three separate occasions now where Talcott’s school has called Prompto instead of one of his foster parents, because they couldn’t be reached and Taclott was waiting alone in his classroom long after the other kids had been picked up.

“Sorry,” the kid said anxiously, that first afternoon, “sorry, Prompto, I didn’t know who else they should call.”

And Prompto’s _been there._ When work ran late and his boss wouldn’t let him walk the dark streets of Insomnia by himself and he was forced to call the only person he could think of that might show up. Shrinking under Ignis’ scrutiny, fielding questions about his absent parents, stewing in guilt and shame the whole way home.

That shouldn’t be Talcott. Not this sweet, smart kid, who was someone’s grandson before he suddenly wasn’t anything to anybody, who knows how it is to be loved and has to go without it now.

So, _obviously_ , Talcott isn’t a stray Prompto can just pick up and take home, but if he needs a place -- if he needs somewhere to keep some stuff, to go after school, to talk to people who have time to listen --

It’s not like they were using the second room, anyway.

Ignis hums, noncommittal, and his writing is a steady scratch against the paper. He looks two shades from smiling outright, and Prompto has the distinct impression _he’s_ the one Ignis is amused at.

“You’re mean,” he says plainly.

The front door opens before Ignis has a chance to reply, luckily, and thundering feet race inside. Tiny races along at Talcott’s heels, barking, and the boy skids into the kitchen with so much momentum he would have kept going and crashed into the wall if Gladio didn’t put an arm out to stop him.

“Look!” he says by way of greeting, unfazed. “Gladio took me to that cool store and we found this camera!”

Ignis looks long-suffering at the mention of the thrift store he’s still occasionally dragged into, but Prompto lights up at the device in Talcott’s hands. It’s a little battered, but a quick check proves it to be in perfect working order.

“Not bad, buddy,” he says, grinning as he hands it back. “Wanna get in some practice?”

“Yeah!” Talcott hops in place, the camera cradled against his chest with infinite care. It’s almost too big for his hands, but he’ll grow into it. “You can teach me how to take pictures like you do!”

Prompto is getting excited, too, and about to suggest they start at the city park since its just a brisk walk away, when Ignis slides his work back into its sleeve and says, “Dinner first, and then homework.”

“Okay, Ignis,” Talcott says agreeably, with exactly none of the whining and wheedling that Prompto and Noct always defaulted to. “Can I help cook?”

Ignis relents with a smile, the big softy, and instructs Gladio to get the footstool out for him by way of answer.

 

* * *

 

That night, when Prompto peeks into Talcott’s room to make sure he’s okay, Tiny nudges her way past his legs and through the crack in the door, bounds up onto the bed and settles against the sleeping boy’s side.

“He’s not yours,” he whispers at the dog, who flicks an ear in his direction but otherwise ignores him entirely.

 

* * *

 

“So where’d you live before this, blondie?” Gladio asks at one point, and Prompto lifts his head off Ignis’ arm to shoot him a puzzled look.

“Why?”

“Just wondering,” the big man says with a shrug. “You have an accent, you know?”

“Oh. I do?” Prompto asks of Ignis, who looks at him with a smile.

“It’s not nearly as noticeable as mine. When you get excited you tend to talk quickly, and it gets more pronounced.”

No one had ever mentioned it to him before now, but Prompto supposes that’s not the kind of thing polite strangers would bring up. And it’s not like he’s spent enough time in one place long enough to have friends that might wonder where he came there from.  

“Huh,” he says. “Well, I grew up in Midsommarkransen, but I moved when I was sixteen.”

Gladio sits upright slowly and even Ignis seems to be thrown for a loop. Prompto goes over what he said in his head, looking for the source of their confusion, and says, “Oh, sorry, in Stockholm. A little suburb outside the big city stuff.”

“Stockholm,” Gladio parrots. “As in, Sweden.”

Prompto nods, and another one of those silent communication passes between the other two, right over his head. Ignis folds his book closed and reaches over to brush some hair behind Prompto’s ear, and follows up the gesture by wrapping that arm around his shoulders companionably.

“And you left when you were sixteen?” His question is mild, easy to answer.

“Yeah, as soon as I could. It’s nice there, but I had a good idea you guys were pretty far away.”

Gladio is staring at him like he’s never seen him before. “And you just... roamed around? For -- what, five years?”

“Gladio,” Ignis puts in, oddly warning.

“Four,” Prompto replies, uncertain with where this is going. “It took me awhile to figure out where I was supposed to be. This world is like, ridiculously big.” He brightens, and adds, “I got a lot of good pictures, though!”

“What the fuck, Prom, you really lived like that?”

“Gladiolus,” Ignis says, sharp, before Prompto has a chance to feel one way or another.

“That’s not what I meant. I just -- “ Gladio looks at a loss. “You -- it was so shitty, last time. I remember that much. It was shitty, and _we_ were shitty, and you were the one bright thing left, you know? I thought, if you were out there again, somewhere, like I was, then someone like you would be -- _loved_ , or taken care of, at least. I thought you’d be happy. Or I hoped.”

Prompto can’t look at him, eyes dipping away and landing on his knees. For a long moment, no one speaks, and Prompto’s heart is beating too fast, too hard, so loud he’s sure they can hear it in the stark silence of the room.

Then Ignis’ hand slides up the nape of Prompto’s neck to bury itself in his hair, scrunching pleasantly. Gladio sits on the edge of the coffee table, easy and half-smiling.

“Hey,” he says, “it’s okay. Sorry for bringing it up.”

Prompto braves a glance up at him. “I’m pretty happy _now._ ”

“And that’s lovely to hear,” Ignis says, rich and warm. “But we can do better.”

 

* * *

 

Talcott brings home a friend, a little girl his age with sweeps of blond hair and bright eyes. Her older brother lingers behind them, watchful and polite.

Prompto’s knees go a little weak, but he manages to pretend they don’t by choosing that moment to sink into a chair.

“This is my best friend from school,” Talcott says with all that bright, eager joy of a child with something exciting to share. “She’s an artist! I told her you were, too, and she wanted to see your pictures!”

The girl giggles when Tiny jumps up on her front, and kneels to give the dog her full attention.

“I like your puppy,” she says, looking up at Prompto with guileless eyes. “She looks just like my Shadow.”

“Right,” Prompto manages, struggling with the very real urge to defer to this nine-year-old girl. He glances around for help, even though he already knows Ignis and Gladio are out. “Um. It’s nice to meet you, miss.”

“Don’t be silly, Prompto,” she laughs. “Call me Luna.”

“Sorry about my sister,” Ravus says, sounding pained. “Mom says she’s an old soul.”

 

* * *

 

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Gladio says, a variation of the same question he’s asked four times by now.

Prompto realizes he’s pacing again, and sits down sheepishly. “Sorry,” he says, “too much caffeine, I guess.”

He tries to tune back in to whatever they’re watching on TV, but he hasn’t been paying attention and he’s lost now. He tries to focus on the characters and the plot but his mind won’t settle, sweeping up and away like a startled bird. He can’t sit still.

Ignis clearing his throat draws him back again and he realizes he’s on his feet, halfway across the room, completing another circuit of his restless patrol.

His face burns. “Sorry,” he says again, feeling a little like an idiot.

“Don’t be,” Ignis says, standing in that slow, smooth way that makes him look tall. He's looking at Prompto with heavy eyes -- knowing, or expectant, like he's aware of something Prompto isn't yet. “I was going to suggest perhaps going for a walk. Tiny could use the exercise.”

"Don't forget your camera," Gladio says. Strings it around his neck by the strap and kisses the top of his head. It lingers a little, like Gladio is trying to impart something he doesn't know how to say out loud. But his grin is playful and familiar when he steps back and adds, "Now go get 'im, tiger."

 

* * *

  
He ends up in the sprawling city park. It's a warm night, dusk painting the sky a rich orange, and Tiny goes to town chasing squirrels. Prompto gets a few shots of her bounding through bushes, rolling in the grass, snapping at a stray leaf. 

Then he photographs the fountain, a peacefully bubbling number with little lights set at the bottom of the pool so the water glows light and blue. Then he's gotta get a shot of the wrought iron fencing the community garden, and from there the footpath winding its way crooked way towards the waterfront. 

The river is like a mirror, bright in the falling light. There are a few benches on the concrete bank, and a small boat out on the water. Prompto lifts his camera and shoots. He pivots, the camera still drawn up to his face, and shoots again. He loses himself in it, photo after photo, Tiny a warm weight against his leg. 

The restless feeling from earlier is gone. He doesn't feel like there's anywhere else he needs to be. 

He turns again, another half-step, and this time a person blocks his view of the waterfront, out of focus, a human-shaped blur. Prompto adjusts the zoom idly, on autopilot, and watches their features blend into something clearer. 

Dark hair and a pale face and heartbreaking blue eyes. That's Noct in the viewfinder, bewildered and beautiful and every inch the man Prompto walked tall for. 

The camera slips out of Prompto's hands, catching on the strap around his neck and dangling there. He doesn't feel it go. 

Noctis is looking at a spot near Prompto's feet. He's out of breath, like he chased something all the way here.

"Carbuncle?" he says, slowly, as though trying the word out loud for the first time. Then his gaze moves, trailing up, until he's looking Prompto in the eye. 

In an instant, everything blows out of his expression but sweet wonder.

He lurches forward -- crosses the handful of steps between them at a run and slams into Prompto's open arms, the momentum almost toppling them both over into the damp grass. They cling to each other to keep upright and then stay there.

Prompto feels wobbly and unsteady, he's breathing in desperate gulps, fingers trembling where they grab fistfuls of Noct's jacket. This is -- this is everything, it's absolutely everything, the memory of him is nothing compared to the real thing.

"You're here." Noct's voice is thick and soft, the way it only sounds when he's crying. His shoulders are shaking, one hand biting into Prompto's back, the other buried in his hair, and it feels like he'll never let go. It feels like he's been lonely, too. "Prom, Prom, you're  _here._ " 

"’Course I am," Prompto says through a watery laugh, muffled against his shoulder. "Where else would I be?”

 

* * *

 

Prompto takes him by the hand and leads him home, to where the other half of their family is waiting.

And the future, when it finds them, is endlessly bright.

**Author's Note:**

> some people would say  
> to accept their fate  
> well [if this is fate](https://youtu.be/067JjJYXYC4)  
> then we'll find a way to cheat

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [honeymoon avenue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17748077) by [dreamtowns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamtowns/pseuds/dreamtowns)




End file.
